John woke up late in the most comfortable bed he'd slept on in years. Far from enjoying it, he felt out of place. Part of him wished he hadn't accepted Lionel's offer of a nightcap and a place to sleep, but it had been awfully late by the time they'd both caught their breath and tied up the loose ends on the hunt. He'd spent some time double checking for remaining EMF, which was unfortunately pointless with all the historical artifacts stored at the mansion, and he'd helped with a little of the cleanup, since the mansion staff were gone for the night.

But once they'd caught their breath after the shock, John had also spent a little time giving Lionel a bit more information about how to defend himself under circumstances he might run into in the future. Lionel had eaten up everything John shared, which was always gratifying. It had been nice, also, to have a place to shower and write his journal entry without having to drive to a motel and check in under an alias and fake credit card.

More than any of that, though, something in his gut told him he should stay. Maybe the hunt wasn't quite over; maybe there were loose ends he'd missed; maybe there was something else entirely going on in the mansion, and Lionel was still in danger. John didn't know what it was, but he did know that ignoring instincts was something that got hunters killed. So he had stayed.

John rolled over and checked his phone—mid afternoon. He still didn't seem to be getting any cell reception, which wasn't exactly surprising for a middle-of-nowhere cow town, but he was looking forward to checking in with Dean. He should really be getting on the road.

John pulled himself out of bed and began to make his way down the hall. He figured he should at least try to check in with his host before he left, to thank him for his hospitality and let him know he was welcome to call anytime if any complications arose. Aside from that, though, one thing had been bothering John in the night—he didn't understand how Lionel had ended up with such bad intel. Hunters weren't the friendliest, but they were generally willing to help out, and they had good resources. Lionel had clearly had access to some resources, because he had gathered one hell of an arsenal of useful tools against supernatural threats, but he'd also missed some basics. It was like he'd found a list of items and sigils that might be helpful, but all of the information had been completely removed from its context.

A bit of reddish brown paint caught John's eye, right at the corner where the floor met the wall. He bent a little closer, squinting.

Advanced sigils. He hadn't seen anything like this in years, not since he'd had to pull in four other hunters to take down a coven of century-old witches. And these weren't protective sigils. If he recalled, they had to do with casting glamor spells . . .

What was Lionel doing?

John followed the line of symbols to the next door. It was locked, of course, but it was nothing he couldn't handle in seconds.

He'd seen the materials for summonings before. The bowls of liquids and powders, the sigils on the table and floor in the windowless room...they were similar, but far more intensive than anything John had ever seen. This was advanced spell work. Lionel hadn't struck John as a witch, but maybe he was working with one. Even at that, he wasn't sure how Lionel had managed to get ahold of some of the ingredients. Money could do a lot, but it couldn't buy everything.

One way or another, Lionel had almost certainly been playing dumb. A man who knew little of the supernatural wouldn't have this in his home.

John didn't touch the spell work. His attention was drawn toward another setup, a little further into the room. This was less like anything he'd ever seen. There were potion bowls, but also wires and chips and computer screens, and the whole thing was plugged into the wall. A toolkit sat beside it.

Instinct took over. He unplugged the main computer.

All at once, John's phone began buzzing.

John took it out of his pocket. He had missed calls a few unknown callers, but also from Bobby and Dean. He had several voicemails and a few texts. He pulled up the most recent one, which was from Dean, and scrolled up to read all of the messages he'd missed from his eldest.

Friend of mine saw you pull up at Lionel Luthor's. Call me.

Dad, I know some things about Lionel. Please call me back, I'll tell you what I know.

Get out of there if you can. You can't trust Lionel Luthor.

Never mind. I'm almost at the mansion. Sam's with me.

John swallowed. So much for bad signal in small towns—the technical setup had been blocking his cell signal all this time. His instincts had been screaming at him about what was going on here, but he'd misunderstood them.

He had to get out of here.

"You hold your liquor well."

John whirled around to see Lionel in the doorway. The look in his eyes . . . John suddenly understood. This had all been a game, a trap. And John had walked right into it.

"Far better than I was expecting. I assumed you'd be out for at least a few more hours. It's a shame, you would have been an asset."

He bolted for the toolkit and picked up a crowbar, but he didn't lunge for the man. Lionel may have been trying to lure him in and use him, for God only knew what, but John didn't kill humans. It wasn't what he did. Instead, he ran for the summoning work. He smashed through the ceramic bowls, spilling liquids onto the floor and into each other.

Then John turned to Lionel. "You don't know what you're getting yourself mixed up in, Lionel," he said. "Hunters don't live long, but people who try to take advantage of the supernatural? They come to much, much worse endings."

Lionel sighed. "Oh, I really wish you hadn't done that, John," he said.

And he pulled out a gun.

Strictly speaking, Clark didn't have to sleep. Much.

But sleep had usually come easily to him.

When his enhanced hearing first kicked in, there was a period of time when he couldn't sleep. He could hear everything, and it wasn't always obvious what he was hearing. He heard laughter, crying, and screaming that tore at his heart; wind, rain, and thunder that may have been coming from the other side of the world, for all he knew; animals, machinery, and a whole host of sounds he couldn't recognize to save his life.

These days, he could tune in to what he wanted to hear. He could still hear his alarm clock, and his parents calling him awake, but other than that, when he was asleep, his ears seemed to mostly tune out the world. He was thankful for that.

Tonight, though, he couldn't sleep anyway.

Something about the mansion had given him pause. Sure, he'd encountered new mutants at least monthly for the past few years, and his fair share of monsters as well. It seemed like as soon as his eyes were open for the supernatural and alien infection, suddenly it was everywhere. He'd had new powers arise, and he'd had new weaknesses, exposures to different colors of kryptonite, each with detrimental effects.

But his X-Ray vision bouncing off the mansion walls and hitting him in the eyeballs, that wasn't normal.

He focused his hearing in on the mansion, as best he could, and he couldn't hear anything. Nothing. Even tuning out the world, he'd never heard so much nothing.

It kept him awake all night, and it kept him distracted through the next day. Through breakfast and lunch, through chores and breaks, he kept an ear out for what was happening at the mansion. Silence.

Then, all of a sudden, he could hear again.

It was mostly quiet. A few footsteps, some quiet chatting between guards, nothing of interest. But one voice stood out to him. A girl's voice, calling for help. It was faint, like she'd been put in a sound proof room but the sound proofing wasn't perfect. Still, he would have known the voice anywhere.

If whatever had been blocking his hearing and X-Ray vision had stopped working . . . maybe he could get in and save her.

He bolted away from the farm at full speed, stopping at just such a distance that he could stop and squint toward the walls, using his X-Ray vision to scope out a route with minimal guards and no kryptonite. Two guards stood outside the room where Chloe was being held; he couldn't avoid them, but he could knock them out. Plotting a route without kryptonite was more challenging, but as soon as he'd found a way, he bolted at full speed, not bothering to slow to a human's pace as he came around the corner and approached the guards. In an instant, much faster than their eyes could process his presence, he tapped each one on the forehead, knocking them out. Then he broke the lock on the door and jogged into the room.

It was an empty closet. Chloe's cheeks were stained with tears, but her eyes lit up when she saw him coming in.

"Clark!" she cried. "I knew you'd come!"

"Don't worry, Chloe. I'm gonna get you out of here."

He went around behind her to take a look at her bindings. She was handcuffed to a shackle on the wall. He could easily break through the cuffs, but not without revealing his powers to her . . .

He didn't like knocking people out if he could avoid it. But better for her to wake up with a headache than with the burden of knowledge about who he really was. And he didn't have much time—any second now, more guards could be coming in.

"Sorry," he whispered, and he raised a hand to tap the back of her head.

Gunshots sounded from down the hall.

Clark jumped, striking a little harder than he'd intended. He almost broke through her handcuffs and sped her away anyway, but he could afford to check out what was going on—she'd be out for at least a few minutes, now. And if John was in trouble . . . well, that's why they'd been keeping their eye on the mansion, anyway.

"I'm coming back for you," he whispered, and he jogged out of the cell.

Throughout the long drive to Kansas, Sam had gone back and forth about whether running off with Dean was a good idea.

When it came down to it, though, he truly could not have made a different choice. This was his family. And a conflict between his dad and Lex's, in Smallville . . . that involved almost everyone he considered family.

They rounded the curve to get to the mansion at breakneck speeds, and the car was just barely stopped when Dean came rushing out of the car. They took an odd side entrance Sam hadn't seen before, but the door was hanging open, a couple of guards laying unconscious. Maybe Clark had gotten here first—it was possible they'd arrived at close to the same time.

Dean took out his gun and slowed to a silent walk as they entered the mansion, and Sam took his cue, following behind with his own gun.

Then a gunshot rang out.